


avorté.

by eoghainy



Category: Outlander (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: avorté.born dead.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 21
Kudos: 74





	avorté.

**Author's Note:**

> rated m for non-con elements & blunt mentions of rape.  
> tw : rape, child death, stillbirth.

Somewhere, water drips into a forgotten corner of the bastille.

 _Drip, drip, drip_.

The sound is enough to drive Jamie mad with thirst. Untouchable, unreachable the water is, far outside the confines of his cell. He supposes this is a blessing, for the water is most like contaminated with shit and piss; too disgusting to put into his body. Christ be forgiven, he was just _so thirsty_. He’d take the shit water over nothing at all.

_Drip, drip, drip._

It must have rained recently, Jamie thinks. There is far more water coming into this cell block than the day before. Had he slept through a storm? The sounds of thunder and pounding droplets might have been far more comforting than the endless dripping and utter silence that the bastille provided him with. The deafening silence allowed him time to think; time that he did not want. Being all by his lonesome, all he could bear to think about was Claire. The bairn.

_His bairn._

Distinctly, he remembers being on that field, sword knocked out of his hand and arms being pulled together behind his back. Claire shrieking his name, body hunched in on itself and face as white as a bone, arms cradling her swollen stomach as blood stained her thighs. Jamie did not know much about childbirth, but he knew from Jenny’s ramblings that some blood was normal; a hemorrhage of such was not.

The last he had seen of his precious wife was her eyes rolling upwards into her head and her body growing slack, too weak to support itself. He had screamed for her as he had been taken away, fought to be brought to his wife for just a _moment_ , to check and see if she was alright, but his cries and threats and promises as Laird Broch Tuarach did nothing to help his case. The French were oft unforgiving when their laws were broken, and that was a lesson that Jamie learned the hard way.

He had had no visitors since his imprisonment. Not his wife, not Fergus, not Murtagh. He wasn’t surprised about Claire; most like she was at home with their bairn, allowing him sit and stew and realize the depth of his mistake before taking care of the situation, like the angel she truly was. She would be a storm to deal with once he had his freedom, and he would spend many months making this up to her as well as himself. _After_ he explained to her what drove him to such madness, to such irresponsibility.

Jamie wasn’t too surprised the little lad wasn’t able to come visit him; Claire most like needed his help with the bairn, and in a word he must still be sore after what had happened in the brothel. Not that Jamie could blame him, his memories of Wentworth would never subside. He only could hope that for Fergus, he’d be able to heal. Forget. Move on. Murtagh, on the other hand, Jamie had no excuse for. Perhaps his godfather was simply letting him learn his lesson in the most cruel way. A petty creature the Fitzgibbons-Fraser mix could be.

Deep in the throbbing abyss that was his heart, Jamie knew all the excuses in the world couldn’t help him escape the horrific possibility of the truth. He had been trying to hide from his crushing doubts, to avoid the thoughts of what might have happened after he had been dragged away, but at night when he lain awake on his cot with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, he allowed poisonous imaginings to lull him into an uneasy, nightmare state; an existence between wakefulness and sleep, held captive by his traitor brain replaying all his worries.

The bairn, dead. Claire, also dead. Randall freed from the bastille, seeking to finish what he started with Fergus. The bairn dead, Claire alive; Randall enacting his revenge upon his defenseless wife.

He could keep himself awake all night with thoughts like these, so oft times he pushed them away in favor of the nightmares surrounding these situations instead. Dreams of Claire having the bairn, drowning it in her own life’s blood; the agonizing cries she’d release as she still had to give birth to something that would never draw breath. Dreams of Claire holding the bairn, feeling it take its final breath as it passed on from this world to the next. Dreams of Claire slowly bleeding out in the hospital, torn apart from the inside out by the very babe she loves so much.

Every single eve, when the guards would bring him his daily meal, he’d beg them for word on his wife. “Please, my wife, Claire Fraser – last I saw o’ her, she was verra ill. She was carryin’ a bairn – a babe, I mean. Please, I beg o’ ye, bring me news of th’ Lady Broch Tuarach. Fer the sake o’ Christ, _please_!” He’d beg with his hands wrapped around the bars, ignoring any food that was tossed in at him as if he were a wild animal. He’d be ignored, sometimes even spat at if the mood in the bastille was terse, but never did one bring him any news on his wife.

Jamie supposes it’s that time of the eve again when he hears echoing footsteps from further up the corridor. He readies himself to grip the slimy bars, to beg in both English and French if he has to, to promise riches and rewards if anyone brings him news on what happened to Claire, but he is rendered immobile with surprise when he sees naught but the lad before him.

Fergus looks uncomfortable, dark curls wild around the gentle, childish curve of his face. There’s a flighty look in his eyes that makes Jamie think that Randall haunts his dreams; a tormenter to keep the wee lad from moving on from such an experience. There’s an adult sense of sobriety there, too; a deep somberness that rouses Jamie’s worry and concern. The lad was oft a carefree thing, unbothered by things that happened around him – to bring him to such peaks of seriousness, something bad must have happened.

“Milord,” Fergus says before Jamie has the chance to speak. His heart beats a terrified tune of stress and worry against his ribs. “It has taken me weeks to be able to . . . uh, _convince_ the guards to allow me to see you.”

So, he’d been in this prison for weeks. Jamie did not dare ask how many for fear of knowing how much time he has lost. “Ye mean ye gave them coin.” Jamie corrects, finding his voice was in a right sad state. Croaking and unused, a rasping weak thing. Nothing like the strong drawl he was oft known for.

“I’m sorry milord!” Fergus blurts, clearly upset by what he has had to do. “They wouldn’t let me see you any other way, _fichus extorqueurs_! I did not take the coin from you or milady, I made it myself.”

Weakly, Jamie chuckles. It felt good to see Fergus in such spirits, even if he just did admit to stealing from any likely patron. “Dinna fash, lad. I wouldna blamed ye if ye had. Ye have no cause t’ fear me.” Awkwardly, Jamie tries to fit his comically large hand between the bars to cup Fergus’ jaw. He only semi-succeeds, fingertips gently brushing over his soft skin. “Now, why don’t ye go on ‘n tell me why yer here? I ken they wilna give ye much time.”

“I came because . . . well, I came because I’m scared!” Again, the words came tumbling out of Fergus’ mouth in a accented rush. “It is my fault milord is in here; if I had not disobeyed milord’s orders, you’d be home! Maybe, if I had just listened, milady would come home and everything would be okay, like it was before! _C’est de ma faute!_ ”

Fergus was weeping openly, much like a wee bairn that just wanted his parents to pay attention to him. Jamie oft had to remind himself that Fergus _was_ barely more than just a bairn; a young man he may be, but he still had childish softness to his face, as well as his childhood ignorance and arrogance. Standing there in the dimly lit corridor, face highlighted by shadows and sniffing pathetically, Jamie longs to pull Fergus right into his arms and comfort him. The bars serve as a strong, painful barrier between the two of them.

“It isn’a yer fault, lad. Ye have a curiosity t’ ye that canna be stopped, I don’t blame ye fer what happened. Blame him, _Randall._ ” Jamie speaks the name with such a hatred that it makes Fergus temporarily grow still. “I would do it all again. He raped ye, and that deserves t’ be punished. If not by the guards, then by me, or even God. I would send him t’ meet the Almighty if I could do it without breakin’ me promise.” The pad of his thumb wipes away stray tears on Fergus’ jaw. “I just wish t’ God that I had been able t’ stop him before he violated ye, before he _touched ye. Losgadh as coltaiche, a Rhandall_.”

Fergus wipes his face forcefully, almost as if he were trying to appear strong. Jamie’s heart broke for the poor lad. “Milord, I should have listened –”

“ _No_ , _mo bhobain_. The fault – ‘tis mine, just as much as ‘tis Randall’s. I shouldna let ye out o’ me sight.” With an exhale, Jamie doubles back to something Fergus had said before things had gotten emotional. “Where is Claire? Ye said she has’na come home – if she isn’a home, then where she be?”

The color drains from Fergus’ face. The lad took a breath, dark eyes fluttering about as he tried to look anywhere but Jamie’s piercing gaze. “Milady . . . she had _la_ _bébé_. They took her to _á l’hôpital_ , and she . . . Milord, _la_ _bébé_. . . it was, uh, how you say – _avorté_.”

 _Avorté_.

 _Born dead_.

The breath felt like it had been knocked from Jamie’s lungs, leaving him gasping. Sitting back on his heels, hands wrapped firmly around the bars to hold himself up, the world turned upside down and shook violently, like a small branch in a storm. _Avorté._ He knew what that meant. The bairn had never taken a breath, had never cried a squalling sound that signaled life; it had never felt fresh, live air upon its newborn skin. The bairn that he had watched grow within Claire’s stomach these past months, felt it kick against his hands, faintly heard its little heartbeat – was no more. The life he pictured had slipped through the cracks in his fingers like sand, crumbling into the world of nothingness that now belonged to Randall.

He had no response. No words. Only a blank, empty stare; a heart that did not beat.

“Milady, she has not left _à l’hôpital_ because she,” Fergus stops, trying to translate his sentence in his head. “She was _confrontés au deuil, à la maladie_.”

Fergus speaks, his tone a cautious thing; gentle in the wake of emptiness of Fraser fire. Jamie can’t bring himself to draw words, cannot even think past the grief-stricken fogginess of his brain. He’s incredibly aware of his dirty hands, how large and dry they are. They’d never hold that bairn that had barely kept him from falling into the void of darkness after what Randall did to him, after how Randall had ripped his soul to shreds. That bairn, with the promise of a life he’d only dared dream of as a wee lad, was what brought the sun back into his dark world, and returned warmth and love to him.

And it was gone. This bairn was gone.

“Milord?” Fergus’ face swims in Jamie’s vision, but Jamie does not see him. “Milord, I have to go, the guards –” The young boy is cut off, and Jamie doesn’t hear the shouting. Doesn’t hear Fergus spitting out every curse in the book and bribing where he could, doesn’t hear the guards threatening to lock Fergus up if he does not comply.

Everything was empty.

Food came; a half loaf of bread, thrown through the bars and lost in a corner of the cell. The little bits of sunlight that weakly peaks in through the cracks in the stones began to disappear, fading into darkness. His gaze didn’t pull off of the dirty floor that he was staring at, brain struggling to comprehend what Fergus had told him.

“ _Avorté_ ,” Jamie rasps, letting the word sink into his skin. It feels like hot prickles up his spine, like a sob that he could not release; his chest burns with the _need_ to cry, to express his grief to _someone_ who understood. He aches for Claire, to hold her in his arms and breathe in her comforting scent, but she was not here. She was still in the hospital, not wanting to come home. Sickened with grief. Suffering through this alone, just as he was.

The bairn would not be at home waiting to meet him upon his release. He wouldn’t be there to ever see his bairn; ever hold it before it was buried in the ground. He still didn’t know its name, its gender; what color its hair was, how its skin smelled. How small its fingers and toes were. How the bairn felt in his grasp, how the gentle weight of an infant would feel against his muscled forearms.

Oh, he was a selfish, terrible man. Would the bairn have survived if he had not dueled Randall? Would the bairn have lived if he had kept Fergus by his side and Randall had never encountered him? It was _his fault_ Claire went into labor. _He_ was the one who put an unimaginable amount of stress upon her, who _made_ her come to that copse to see him and Randall putting each other to the sword, Jamie clutching his intent to kill like a shield.

If he had kept a tighter lid upon his rage, if he had kept himself under the tightest amount of control that he could muster, he could have prevented this. But, how could he have let such a crime against a _child_ go unpunished? Randall _raped_ Fergus. Do all that you must to him; destroy his body and rip out his soul, Jamie could survive. He’d gladly have been raped all over again to spare Fergus this pain, this _shame_ and _disgust_.

Hearing Fergus cry out, beg for help, beg for _him_ , it had unlocked something primal and protective within him. It’d taken no thought to burst into that room, to yank Randall off of Fergus and pound him to a pulp right on the brothel floor. He’d shouted and demanded for that duel in the fiery depths of his rage, unwilling to let Randall get away with such a heinous crime. He’d wanted to make Randall pay for this, for what he had done to Fergus, and he had.

Perhaps not with Randall’s life, but a mutilation to his favorite ‘weapon’ must be recompense enough, just for now. When the time was right, he’d send that bastard to meet the Almighty. He’d put an end his boundless torment of knowing that Randall was still out there, still able to haunt the darkest of his dreams.

How different could things have been if he had just . . . not lost his control on Randall? Claire must have been worried out of her mind when she found out that he was gone, and that their household staff was ordered to lie to her about his whereabouts. She’d forced her way to that copse, ignoring bloody thighs and the agonizing pains in her abdomen, and just watching himself and Randall hacking away at each other with different, horrific intents had thrown her over the edge.

Perhaps if she had been in her time, with those . . . _ambulances_ that could get her to a better, more equipped hospital within minutes, _perhaps_ their bairn would still be alive. Instead, she was _here_. Stuck with rattling carriages that couldn’t speed, and unable to get to the volunteer hospital in time to save their bairns life.

She had once explained to him that, after a car crash, Claire had been rushed away to a local hospital in one of those ambulance things. It had gotten her there in a matter of minutes, and she had been checked out by a doctor almost right after. She told him that this saved more lives than she could count, and Jamie believed her. When he told her that carriages could take people to a local healer or volunteer hospital within a few hours, at _max_ speed, she had only laughed at his statement and said that some things you had to sacrifice to be with the ones you loved.

God, it was his fault. Their bairn was dead because of him. No matter what way his overtaxed brain tried to put it, tried to fix it, _it was his fault_. He brought Fergus with him to the brothel. He challenged Randall. He wouldn’t stop when his wife screamed his name and collapsed. His love for her kept her here in the first place, months ago when he tried to send her back through the stones, back to Frank and safety.

He deserves to feel this loneliness, this crushing grief in the darkness of his cell. He deserves to bear his grief all on his own. When, eventually, he’d be released and free to return back to their estate, he’d fall upon his knees at his wife’s feet and _beg_ her forgiveness. He’d grasp her hands and kiss her knuckles and sob against her, desperate in his need to know that this act did not cost him her love. Could she even forgive him for such a terrible loss?

She had forgiven him his harsh words after her rescue from Fort William. She had forgiven his desperate, deadly need for death after how Randall destroyed him, body and soul at Wentworth. She had forgiven him his harshness against Frank, forgiven him his rage against her at denying him revenge – but could she forgive him for causing the death of their wee bairn? The death of their _future?_

If Murtagh were here, he’d tell Jamie he was being a damned idiot, and that it was clear the lass was so deeply in love with him that this would all be smoothed over with time. But Murtagh wasn’t here, and Jamie wasn’t sure that Murtagh understood that Claire’s rage oft was as deep and unyielding as his own.

Perhaps, one day, he’d forgive himself for this transgression. Yet, knowing his track record, that day was most like never to see the gentle light of acceptance.

**Author's Note:**

> i added the tag of jamie & claire even though she's not technically present in this piece because she's still a big part of it. i've been wanting to write this missing scene for a while; i felt like we should have seen jamie in the bastille & seen how he had known that faith died. 
> 
> i guess this is my fix it.
> 
> i also wanted to toss some reflection & jamie Protection For Fergus in there.
> 
> as a last comment here, i want to add a HUGE thank you to my two friends that helped me translate scots gaelic & french. i don't speak either of these languages, and google translate is such a nightmare, so i just want to say i appreciate you both and appreciate your help for this piece.


End file.
